Intense
by HotlipsPierce
Summary: It was complex. It was simple. It was theirs.


Intense

My first submission for cuddyfest, for prompt #125: "Out of intense complexities intense simplicities emerge." Winston Churchill.

Hugs, kisses, and perhaps my first-born go to **travlncarrie** for all of her help in being my beta. Enjoy!

It was complex. It was simple. It was theirs.

i.

Without fail, the pain always hit about five seconds before the alarm clock clanged to life. He was never sure how his aches and throbs knew what time he'd set the alarm for, but they did, and they never took a holiday. The only question these days was over which of his injuries would slam back into him first -- his old friend Mr. Thigh-Be-Gone or the new guy in town, Mr. Concussion-Slash-Deep-Brain-Stimulation. _New guy needs a better name_, he thought as he gingerly arose to lean over and silence the peals of his clock. Taking a few minutes to breathe deeply and gather himself, he determined that it was definitely his head this morning. In fact, his thigh pain was nearly non-existent. Normally that'd be a good thing, a sensational thing even, but given the rave that seemed to be taking place in the annals of his mind at the moment, he was having a hard time convincing himself of a reason to celebrate.

Carefully swinging his legs over the side of the bed, House took a couple more steadying breaths and then stood. He winced as he felt a stab run up his right side._ Slept in this morning, Mr. TBG? Thanks for playing anyway, though_. Grabbing his new, completely non-bitchin' cane and stumbling his way to the bathroom, he made a quick stop before limping to the kitchen, stopping just once to see if she was still there. _She_ was the one who'd made him set an alarm in the first place, even though he had no business being awake before noon for at least three more weeks. That was when the lovely people in HR had dictated that he'd be completely healed and ready to make their collective lives miserable once more. He was beside himself with anticipation.

She was being quite the hypocrite, sleeping as he was struggling. Telling him that he needed to establish a routine and stick to it; that it would help "the healing process." _Cuddy, my dear, you're slipping_, he smirked to himself as he pulled out the coffee filters. _Starting to sound like those quacks you hired to pontificate on the fourth floor. Healing process, my ass_. He peered out into the living room to check that she was still dozing comfortably on his couch. Such a hypocrite. Every morning, he was both exasperated to find her still annoying him with her presence and terrified that one day she wouldn't be.

ii.

Without fail, the pain always hit about five seconds before House's alarm clock clanged to life. She had never been a deep sleeper, for the same reasons she was never late to a meeting or a party -- she didn't want to miss a thing. However, these days, she could have done with some amnesia of her own. Everyday, around 7:29:55 A.M., everything would come crashing back to her at once -- the debilitating pain she knew House was experiencing, the indescribable grief Wilson was facing, the deafening silence that was already enveloping her hospital because nothing would ever be the same again, and the acute awareness she felt waking up on the lumpy leather sofa that Wilson had once inhabited, should still be inhabiting. _If that makes any sense_. As she waited for House to turn off his alarm, she took a few deep breaths and shut her eyes tighter. She couldn't wake up, not yet.

Cuddy sensed that he was self-conscious about the way his body looked and moved, and she wanted to give him the few moments to collect himself before having to face "the devil." It certainly saved the awkward embarrassment of having to look away when his leg gave out first thing in the morning. The stubborn bastard didn't want any help; she didn't want to push him more than was needed. Quite frankly, just hearing that clock each morning was a tiny victory for her.

When she had finally persuaded him that her staying with him to aid in getting him back on his feet was a good thing, Cuddy had suggested to him that staying on a regular routine would help his transition back to work. He'd immediately resisted. What's the good in waking up when there's nothing to do all day, he argued. Nevertheless, every evening before settling into the couch, she would make sure the alarm clock was set for 7:30. And for the first two days, he would switch it back off the minute she left the room. After a couple days of not awaking until 11:00 A.M., she developed a new strategy of sneaking in and turning it back on during the middle of the night. Only once did he try to wake up after her to turn it back off again. _Probably reasoned that a full night's sleep boosts one's ability to be an ass each and every glorious morning_, she considered as she heard him start fiddling around in the kitchen. Now she could finally get up. Every day, she was both more and more exasperated to find him still irritating her beyond belief and more and more terrified that one day he wouldn't be.

iii.

"Morning," she said as she ambled into the kitchen.

"Sure."

"Looks like it rained last night."

"Yeah."

Rolling her eyes and nodding, Cuddy resigned herself to the fact that this was going to be yet again the extent of their conversation for the morning. She grabbed a mug and filled it with hot coffee as House retrieved his morning paper from the front door. As per their two-week long habit, he handed her the front page whilst keeping the comics and crossword puzzle for himself. She never mentioned that she also liked working the daily puzzle, and he never mentioned that he enjoyed discussing their opinions on current events.

"Toast?" Cuddy asked after she finished reading about the latest natural disaster to hit the Midwest.

"Hmm...?"

"For breakfast. Toast?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure."

She rammed the white bread into the toaster, unsure of why she was becoming so frustrated. She knew, getting into this, that he was the least likely person on Earth to be a fount of heart-to-heart dialogue, and yet, she also knew that this much quiet wasn't normal for House. He always needed to fill the silence, hence his tendency towards the most boorish of remarks. No, she knew exactly why he was acting like this -- he wasn't talking to Wilson. He hadn't talked to Wilson since Amber died.

_Amber died_. Cuddy still hadn't completely grasped that concept. The thought of it still made her heart twist in ways she didn't think possible for someone she didn't like. It made her scared for what would happen if someone especially close to her were to...

The bread popped out of the toaster, jarring her from despondent musings. She quickly spread some butter on it, grabbed a plate, and placed it in front of House. "Here. I'm going to go take a shower."

"Sure."

"Yeah."

iv.

He crumpled her sheets together and pushed them to the side as he sat down on the sofa. It was pointless was to turn on the TV; his soap wasn't on for another four hours, and he wouldn't dare watch morning talk shows again. Cameron had once caught him in the middle of _Oprah _and had decided she wanted to "discuss it." Nope, House was never making that mistake again. He needed to find something to do, though, because he could hear the shower turning off, which could only mean one thing -- Cuddy was still definitely naked. He may talk a good game, but he knew that the last thing he needed to be doing right now was picturing his incredibly hot boss/caretaker/one-time-lover in the nude.

_Caretaker_. House still hadn't completely grasped the concept that he needed one, and that his was Cuddy, at that. The thought of it made his heart twist in ways he didn't think possible for someone he wasn't supposed to like. It made him scared for what would happen if someday he would just let himself fall...

"I need to go run some errands."

What? How had she dressed that quickly? "Oh. Okay."

"Do you want to come along? Get some fresh air and all that?"

"No, I'll just stay here and read... something."

"All right. Just don't let me come back to find you drunk again." She was rewarded with a glare. "Can you hand me my to-do list? It's on the coffee table."

"Here. I added to it."

"Mm-hmm," she responded absently, already removed from the chat as she searched her purse for her car keys. "Shouldn't be more than a couple hours. See ya."

"Bye."

v.

_Bell peppers._

_I need bell peppers for the pasta salad._

_Wait...does he like bell peppers?_

_Does he even eat vegetables?_

_Whatever. He will tomorrow night_.

She bagged the peppers and tossed them into the cart. Wandering around the supermarket, a thousand thoughts raced through her mind -- keeping a running total of how much the groceries were going to cost, figuring how best to explain to donors her five-week sabbatical, listing possibilities of what the weird stain on the middle cushion of the couch might be, pondering how perhaps to get Wilson to "accidentally" drop by Friday night, trying to identify what song the grocery store was blasting over the speakers, and most importantly, determining what to make for dinner tonight.

Cuddy realized that House was a grown man and was capable of making his own meals, but it was her guilt, her own _perverse guilt_ that kept her so utterly over-supportive of him this time around. Guilt over what, exactly, she wasn't sure. Possibly because she wasn't there for House as much as he needed when Wilson started seeing Amber, or maybe because whatever latent maternal genes she possessed were cropping up again, or, for all she knew, the whole reason she was doting over him now was because everything bad that he did or that happened to him now was ultimately all her fault. She had started it all nine years ago by opening her big, fat mouth to Stacy about "a middle ground."

Stopping in the middle of the produce section to catch her breath and to will the tears to not fall, she forced herself to quit dwelling on the past. It was pointless to do so; she'd already inserted herself into the situation, and he didn't seem to be kicking her out. Yet. Nevertheless, she was going to soldier on and complete to what she had committed herself. He would never respect her again if she were to just quit.

When she finally had figured out a menu for the evening and had finished her shopping, she put everything into her car and grabbed her list.

_To do:_

_1. Pick up dry cleaning_. Check.

_2. Pick up prescription refill at pharmacy_. Check.

_3. Drop off dry cleaning at home_. Check.

_4. Buy groceries_. Check.

_5. House_. Che..._Huh?_

Suddenly it all came flooding back to her: _"Can you hand me my to-do list? It's on the coffee table." "Here. I added to it."_ "Yes, you certainly did," she murmured to herself, a smile crossing her features for the first time that day. She was sure that this was one of those things that she was supposed to find irritating, but found she couldn't muster the displeasure. In fact, she felt just the opposite -- delight. It was always the simple things that brought out the complexities of their relationship.

vi.

_Bell peppers_.

"What are bell peppers, Alex?"

"You are correct!" Trebek announced.

"Ha! Knew I wasn't brain-damaged," House remarked to no one in particular. As _Jeopardy!_ continued to drone on in the background, he mentally surveyed what he'd accomplished for the morning. The diagnostic flash cards sitting on the table in front of him represented the reading he'd told Cuddy he was going to do. After all, _knowing_ you aren't brain-damaged and _confirming_ you aren't brain-damaged are two very different things. Then, he'd made his bed the way his father had taught him -- so crisply one could bounce a quarter off it -- just to throw her for a loop. She never expected him to be tidy. After that, he had settled in for a rousing game of him versus the idiots on TV. So far, he'd gotten every question right but one. He wasn't worried, though; he hadn't known the names of all five members of NSYNC before the deep brain stimulation, either.

He noticed the coffee cup on the table and quickly moved to place it on a coaster, though he didn't know exactly why. During the weeks that Wilson had lived here, his friend had ranted and raved about the benefits of using coasters, but House couldn't have been bothered to care. Now, with Cuddy here, he did it without even thinking. His whole place had been spruced up lately, come to think of it. It wasn't that he was a disorganized person, per se, but dust didn't bug him, and since he was the only one living here, why should he concern himself with dusting? Yet she'd had the entire apartment spick and span within a day of moving in -- the advantages of being bored, he guessed.

But why did they do these things for each other? They disliked one another so much, and yet they took care of each other and protected each other and...and used coasters for each other. Why? There was only one answer -- he was House, and she was Cuddy. It couldn't be explained any other way. He snorted. It was always the complex things that brought out the simplicities of their relationship.

vii.

She hadn't been aware of just how much she'd purchased until she tried getting it all into the apartment without any help whatsoever. "Your assistance is, as always, duly appreciated."

"It's what I'm here for," he called back from the couch, too enthralled by _Prescription Passion_ to even consider getting up to carry a bag.

After putting everything away, she flopped down next to him. "So what has Brock Sterling been up to lately?"

"Anna's twins were born today."

"House?"

"What?"

"Are those the twins?"

"Of course."

"They're two different races."

"That's because they have two different fathers."

"Come again?"

"Two different fathers. Cuddy, it's a soap opera. Did you actually expect it to be logical?"

"I guess not. So, how much longer is this on?"

"About ten more minutes. Why?"

"I was hoping we could go for a walk."

"Can't."

"House, your leg can make around the block. You need to get outside, get your day's worth of Vitamin D."

"It's not my leg. It's my routine. I always watch _Access Hollywood_ after this. Getting up now would be detrimental to my healing process."

"Walk with me now, and you'll find yourself with four less clinic hours when you get back to work."

He seemed to consider the offer for a bit. "Make it eight, and you've got a deal."

"Six."

"Seven."

"Six and a half."

"Deal. Now shush, I can't miss the end."

Ten minutes later, they were off. Cuddy wasn't completely sure why she had insisted they go now, other than for the reasons she had told him, but she knew that he needed to get out. Since the accident, he'd been walking considerably slower than usual. It was hard to tell if it was because of the bus accident itself or because of his significant lack of movement afterwards, but if he didn't keep moving now, his muscles wouldn't recover.

She also was aware that he needed to get reacquainted with the world. House had been outside a grand total of twice since being released from the hospital two weeks ago -- once to sit unnoticed at Amber's funeral and again to meet with Foreman for a check-up. Though not inherently social, he wasn't a hermit, either. Aside from his music and his puzzles, he derived his greatest pleasure in astounding others with his soaring wit. If there were no "others," then what would be left of his banter?

That was what had initially drawn Cuddy to House -- their mutual capacity for banter. She counted the first time she had won a verbal sparring match against him as one of the greatest moments in her life. Such a high was created from that event that she became an instant addict. She understood perfectly well his dependency on medical puzzles because she extracted the same ecstasy from every time they spoke. It was just plain fun to talk to House, and she wouldn't change that for the world.

viii.

He would never admit it aloud, but he was truly enjoying this little jaunt around the block. The sun felt fantastic, and the silence felt comfortable. The outside air gave him room to think in a way that his own air conditioning never could.

And right now House chose to think about Cuddy. Again. She really was absolutely _gorgeous_. He hadn't even been aware of his fetish for dark, curly hair until he'd met her. And then there were her eyes. Her eyes made him want to confess everything to her -- that he'd almost called Wilson five times today, but was too scared to dial that last number, that he never wanted to let go of her hand at the hospital, and that it was Chase who kept hacking into clinic schedules database and switching everything around and not Kutner as she'd suspected.

But he couldn't do that, and he wouldn't, because that's not how they worked. They avoided and talked around issues. They lied to each other and sold each other out. They let everyone think that they hated one another, and he would have given the world to change that.

ix.

The rest of the day proceeded uneventfully; he secretly reviewed one of his old Nephrology textbooks so that she wouldn't suspect that he was worried about his memory, and she kept him out of the kitchen so that he wouldn't suspect what was for dinner. They had pretty much succeeded in avoiding each other until about mid-evening, when he limped questioningly across the living room. "Do I smell...meat?"

"Yep." She was searching through one of his cabinets for a non-stick frying pan.

"Actual meat? Of the animal variety?"

"Uh-huh." Finding what she was looking for, she turned back to the stove.

"But you don't eat meat. Whenever you cook, we eat rabbit food. In the past twelve days, I've only had meat when I bought it for myself."

"Well, not tonight."

"So what are we having tonight?"

"I'm still having the rabbit food. You get hamburgers."

"Burgers."

"Burgers."

"Huh." Half an hour later House was devouring his food as though he hadn't eaten in weeks as Cuddy nibbled her way through a salad. He never mentioned to her how much it pleased him that she, a devout vegetarian cooked him hamburgers, and she never mentioned to him how much it pleased her that he, her number one critic enjoyed her cooking.

x.

To avoid any appearance of domesticity, he only played piano for half an hour instead of his usual hour after supper as she read a novel by the fire. Looking at her afterwards, he had to remind himself that he loathed her. There was only one way to do that -- rile her up. "I notice that you forgot one very important item on your errands list."

"I completed number five on the list twenty years ago," she answered without so much as looking up from her book.

_Not nearly as dramatic as I'd hoped. _ "You're a mean woman, Doctor Cuddy."

"Damn straight, Doctor House."

Forget it. If she wasn't going to play, then he was going to bed. He hadn't taken a shower that day anyway. "Did you set your alarm clock?" she asked as she watched him get up to leave.

"Would you punish me if I didn't?"

She feigned a scandalized look and laughed, and he gave her a wry smile. "Goodnight, House."

"Goodnight, Cuddy."

It was simple. It was complex. It was theirs.


End file.
